Scotch and Leather
by SolarRose29
Summary: Tony's tongue has always moved faster than he can control, a squirming mass of wriggling muscle that spews poison as a knee-jerk reaction to anything his bloated ego perceives as a threat.


**If I owned any of the characters, no one else would see them because I would keep them all for myself. **

**This piece was written as bromance, not slash.**

* * *

><p>It's been eighty-three hours since he last slept. That's a new record. The first three days were spent in a blur of inspiration-driven inventing, tinkering, repairing, modifying, constructing, altering, adjusting, fashioning and welding. With strong coffee running through his veins like blood, he hadn't even been aware of the passage of time. So what if the caffeine overdose made his hands shake so bad he burned himself five separate times? He's dealt with that before and he still got a new suit out of it. The possibilities for improvement are endless. Or, rather, they'd seemed that way at the beginning. As the dawn turned over on the fourth day, his muse had shriveled, his burns were smarting like nobody's business and the coffee pot had run dry. The bad mood that had prompted him to lock himself in the lab in the first place did not improve when it was given the news. Sheer willpower (or idiotic stubbornness, as Pepper liked to call it,) kept him from succumbing to the demanding need to let his eyelids shut. By now, he's so exhausted he isn't even tired. The urge to sleep has been overrun by a numbness that dulls his eyes and slows his hands. It's almost enough to stop him from pouring himself another drink. Almost.<p>

He upends the bottle, though most of the alcohol misses the chipped coffee mug. Yes, he might have dropped the mug at one point. He doesn't really remember. But he is sure that he's a genius for moving his collection of rich, well-aged Scotch to the lab. Slurping languidly from the lip of the glass, he shoves himself into his chair and the motion rolls it a few feet away. Unfortunately, it knocks him into the work table and an unfinished template tumbles into his lap, hitting his arm on the way down. Amber liquid sloshes over the edge of its container and adds its tint to the motor oil that's already made a home on his worn jeans.

Grumbling under his breath, he drags a hand across his pants, as if the action can clean the mess. When the brown stubbornly refuses to vanish, he gazes despondently at the severely depleted amount left in his mug. It's not enough. Pushing off with pins-and-needles legs, he propels himself back to his substitute bar. As his fingers clumsily struggle to aim the bottle over the waiting coffee cup, he gives up. Who needs mugs anyway? They are overrated and so three days ago. Forgoing the glass, he tips the bottle into his mouth with handicapped motor functions. And if some of it trickles out the corner of his lax lips, who's here to see?

An insistent beeping cuts through the pleasant buzz that's enveloping his mind and he groans as he fishes his cell phone out of his pocket. It takes his brain a moment to separate the phone from the clone his eyes are telling him is there in his second right hand. Who ever heard of a three-armed man? The idea is ridiculous. White letters blink up at him with the message that Jarvis is requesting to have the mute setting removed. His brows furrow. The silence was imposed on his AI sometime around hour forty-six, he thinks. He's fairly certain that's when the programmed voice had given up on advising him to sleep and instead begun urging him to call one of the other occupants of the Tower to come and assist him. Scoffing at the idea, he had decided he'd had enough of the know-it-all and had promptly ordered it to shut up.

But now the sneaky thing is contacting him via a text message, which is technically still complying with his orders. Sometimes, he wishes he hadn't made the computer so smart. Regardless, he blinks a few times to focus his vision and manages to read that someone is requesting access to the lab. Who in the world would be so stupid? He made it undoubtedly clear that he was not to be disturbed. Who could be so dumb as to think they could come in and interrupt him when he was in one of his moods? Laying his head on the table because it suddenly feels like a bowling ball on top of his neck, he specifically tells Jarvis to keep the intruder out.

So it comes as a bit of a surprise when he hears footsteps behind him. His phone gives another chirp and he glances at it to see Jarvis' excuse. Security measures overridden. Perfect. That means it must be Fury or one of his lackeys. He's really not up for a visit from the Men In Black. And what in the world are they doing here anyway? Irritably, a sharp retort on his tongue, he raises his head to greet the newcomer with a dismissal. And he comes face to face with Captain America.

For a moment, all Tony feels is betrayal. Who gave Captain America permission to have the authority to circumvent Jarvis? His robots should respond to no one but their creator. The fact that Fury and his minions can do it is disturbing enough. But to have the caveman of technology be able to do it is just wrong. Rolling his eyes and pretending the room doesn't spin when he does, Tony lazily welcomes the soldier with a couple of choice swear words. It's disappointing when Steve doesn't flush red. Instead, there's only concern visible in every line of his body. Tony resolves to have a talk with him about hiding his emotions better. It's a death sentence to wear one's heart on one's sleeve. The press will eat that person alive. The idea of explaining all of that to the boy scout sounds like way too much work. But hey, at least Tony has good intentions.

Steve bends down and carefully pulls the empty bottle from his fist while asking him how he's doing. Tony snorts, choking on his Scotch-coated throat. He's only slumped in his swivel chair, three day's worth of stubble on his haggard cheeks with fresh burns on his fingers because he's too damn scared to try sleeping. Of course he's peachy. He tells this to the captain, who does not seem as amused by this answer as Tony is. But Tony expected that. The guy's got no sense of humor. Folding his long legs beneath him, compacting his over six foot frame into a more manageable package, Steve crouches in front of Tony, trying to catch his eye. Tony's too quick and he easily evades the captain's searching gaze. The soldier opens his mouth to speak but Tony beats him to it.

Tony's tongue has always moved faster than he can control, a squirming mass of wriggling muscle that spews poison as a knee-jerk reaction to anything his bloated ego perceives as a threat. The ancient relic from an age of virtue and honor sends his venom sacks into overdrive and unfiltered hatred is regurgitated onto the unsuspecting target. It's just as bitter coming up his throat as it was going down. Because, somewhere along the way, Tony's mind disengaged, pulled away from his engineering just enough that the black sludge of self-loathing slipped through the cracks, the chinks in his armor. He'd been swallowing the pill for hours, absorbing it into his blood stream. But now, he wants it out. And Steve is here, right in front of him and so damn vulnerable. So Tony lets go and flings every cruel truth his alcohol-addled brain can dredge up at the waiting soldier. Tony spits out words that are harsh, malicious and callous. Ruthlessly, he throws barbs out his mouth, wanting to pierce the other man, wanting him to hurt and feel the same despair that he himself feels. It's an onslaught born of exhaustion, jealousy and long-buried resentment for which Steve is not responsible and likely not even aware.

Tony digs and digs, throwing aside chunks of the soldier's defenses, shovelfuls of acceptance and resignation. He searches through the carefully constructed walls of valor and integrity, wanting to find those open wounds that weep red blood and if he can stick his finger in them and twist and twist until the salt gets in Steve's flesh and burns it, then maybe Tony won't feel so bad because he won't be alone in his misery.

He's been alone all his life. Even when he thought he wasn't, he was. His family ignored him. His mentors betrayed him. His friends left him. He's waiting. Waiting for his new family, new mentors, new friends, to leave. But he's not a patient man, nor is he a submissive one. Tony Stark makes his own choices and if he's going to be hurt anyway, he's going to choose how. So he pushes away the people who get too close. How can they abandon him if they're never close to begin with?

For minutes that stretch into eternities, vicious phrases pour out his body, shaking his vocal chords and tangling with the stench of old Scotch. The lack of reaction he receives only spurs him on to become more creative, more pitiless with his insults and painful reminders of a life lived and now gone, never to be saved. By the time his thoughts are too jumbled and confused to do more than produce curse words, he's disappointed. It was so much easier to get a rise out of Rogers back on the helicarrier. Back when they'd first met and they were each as angry as the other.

Tony finishes, drained and raw. He waits for the stoic soldier to finally break down, for Rogers to crumble beneath the weight of the heartless confrontation. He waits for Captain America to realize that Tony Stark is so broken that it's not worth the effort to put him back together. He waits for Steve to leave.

But Steve doesn't leave.

Steve takes the motor oil-stained hands in his own white ones, holds them firm with only a fraction of the strength coiled in his scientifically transformed body, and stares up at Tony with glass colored eyes that sympathize and seek to understand. There's no smoldering outrage, no scathing hatred, no defeat anywhere on the defined face that hovers so close. Relief and regret slam into Tony and he means to swear but it comes out a sob and before he comprehends what he's doing, he's leaning forward onto a broad shoulder. His forehead meets leather because Steve always, always wears that jacket. It creaks as Steve shifts at the unexpected contact. But he settles into a position which better accommodates the repentant billionaire.

Tony inhales a breath. It smells like leather and tastes like whiskey. Surrendering the fight after eighty-three and a half hours of activity, his brain begins slowing everything down as it readies for sleep. The structure leaves his limbs and he slumps against the captain. There may be tears in Tony's eyes but he likes to think they are just the excess alcohol leaving his system, overflowing from his body and spilling out his eye sockets. He wonders what happens to leather when it gets wet.

An arm circles around his waist and another braces against his shoulder blades. The floor drops below him as he is lifted out of the chair. Like a rag doll, he's limp in the super soldier's grip as Steve effortlessly bears him to the elevator. He knows he should be mortified that he's being carried by Captain America. But the Scotch is still muddling his thoughts and sleep is tugging at him and Steve is just so warm. Tony manages to keep himself awake long enough to mutter an apology. He falls asleep with murmured forgiveness ringing in his ears.


End file.
